Rehearsal
by Ninja C
Summary: Patrick can't find Kat. Sweetness ensues. Katrick. Oneshot.


**Rehearsal**

**Hello and good morning, 10 Things I Hate About You fandom! This is (rather obviously) my first fic for this archive, so it'll probably be shoddy. However, I'm not going to ask you to go easy on me or anything. Have at me. …And that sounds like I'm asking for it. Whatever. I'll just stick with my usual advice: review if you want, don't if you don't.**

**Disclaimer: No matter how badly I wish to be the owner of 10TIHAY, I will never, ever be William Shakespeare. *cries to sleep***

I'd stood at my post by the door for an hour and a half now, ready to intercept her when she went past, like I did every day now – not that I would ever let her know that. I peered back out the window, down the row of empty parking spaces. Hers was the only occupied one.

Finally, I shoved the "PUSH" bar on the door and sauntered out to my bike. The last of the detention kids sped out of the lot – they, too, were afraid of me, even though I used to be one of them.

My bike revved to life, and I sped out of the school parking lot – but not before dialing my phone. A red light came before me, and I almost forgot to brake as "What do you want?" came issuing from the earpiece.

_Ah, my dear, so nice to see you again. _"Where are you?" I queried without preamble.

Loud, guitar-heavy music was all I heard. "Hey, could you turn it down?" Kat half-yelled, obviously not in response to my question. The decibel level lowered, and I placed the cell on my actual ear again. "What?" she asked for a repetition.

"Where are you?" I questioned again, and I could _hear _her eyes roll.

"Aww, did my escort miss me at the door?" she taunted, then got to my actual question. "I'm with Mandella," she informed me. Which told me… nothing. "Where are _you?_" she returned.

"I'm on my bike," I replied, gunning the engine to demonstrate.

"And if you're on your bike, while talking into a cell phone," Kat concluded, back to her usual harsh tone, "then logically, you're not wearing a helmet."

I smiled in weird satisfaction, about to reply, but then the dial tone sounded. Too late. I knew all I needed to know.

Ten minutes and seven dollars later, I was back on the bike, screaming back to where I'd just been. It was a bit of a stretch to figure out where the source of my intrigue currently was, but when one factored in her still-parked car, her company (Mandella), and the posters for _The Importance of Being Earnest_ scattered about the school, it was a no-brainer.

I'd barely parked my ride when I was off, speed-walking up to the doors of the school Performing Arts Centre (Patrick Verona does not run), two foam cups in hand.

Loud music was clicked off as soon as I entered the hall. I smiled in the knowledge that I was right on the money.

"I'm gonna pee, and then I'm off," someone said from the theatre, just as I turned the corner into the lobby of the PAC.

"Cool," I heard Kat reply. "I'll just finish this flat, and then I'm off too. See you tomorrow."

Mandella waved back, just moving through the doorway. She turned to exit the hall and we almost collided.

There was no fear in her eyes as they met mine, which was a first. "Looking for Kat? She's in there," she answered her own question, motioning with her thumb. I nodded in thanks, brushing past her to enter.

Kat sat poised on her haunches, at the edge of an expansive flat on the stage. She furiously shook the can of spray paint she held, muttering darkly under her breath.

"Damn stuck can - "

"Nourishment?" I offered, holding out one milkshake and sipping the other. Kat rose to her feet, and I tossed the cup over the orchestra pit. She caught it deftly, giving me a strange look. I raised my eyebrows.

"What did you do to it?" Kat questioned suspiciously.

"Nothing," I defended, and she gingerly put her lips to the straw, kneeling again. She picked up the aerosol can and pressed down on the nozzle, but nothing came out. "Come on," she hissed.

I decided to interpret that as an invitation to me, and I crept over to the hidden steps, used by the actors as an invisible entrance for their cues. "Well?" I requested.

"Well, what?" Kat asked, looking around to see where I had gone.

"No 'thank you, o kind saviour'?" I expounded.

Kat's braid flipped to the other side of her head as she turned away from me, still trying to find where my voice was coming from.

"I would," she quipped sarcastically – but insecurely, as though she were floundering for an insult – "but I don't know who that is. Oh, wait, I've almost got a name… Perry… Peter…

"Patrick," she was surprised into saying by my sudden appearance behind her.

"Ah, now she remembers," I taunted, our faces almost as close as they were the night of the Filthy Souls concert. I reached around her and plucked the spray can from her limp grasp. I extracted my pocketknife from my own pocket, twisting it around the nozzle. Kat quickly took a draught from her milkshake, watching me work.

I handed her the aerosol after testing it. She took it and proceeded to paint the Victorian English sky, and I turned my attention to picking up stray dropcloths and the like.

"So," I broke the silence, my voice echoing through the large hall. "Set crew, huh? Didn't know you were into theatrics."

"It was mostly Mandella's idea," Kat confessed. "You know, she's good at art, I have nothing to do… so here we are." The hissing noise of the paint escaping the pressurised can finally stopped, and Kat popped the cap back on. "Just have to clean up, and then I'm out."

"Too late," I replied, holding out my hand. Kat smirked and slapped the can into it, slinging her bag over her shoulder. I jammed the paint can into the metal cabinet, flicked the theatre's lights off, and followed her.

I rushed to the door, just in time to open it in what was sure to be an obnoxious, chauvinistic gesture to Kat. I was right; she rolled her eyes at me endearingly.

She took off in the direction of her car, but I gripped her wrist, swung her around, and kissed her before she'd moved two steps. Upon pulling away, her face was in full shock mode, so I just said, "See you later," and mounted my bike a few spaces away.

The engine revved loudly, but not loudly enough to mask the stuttered word, "Helmet!"

"Yes, dear," I muttered, grinning stupidly and lowering the protective gear over my head. Wouldn't want to deprive the lovely lady of her favourite sight by getting in a wreck and ruining my face, now would we?

"I am not your _dear!_" Kat yelled in outrage, but it was so delayed as to be almost comical as I roared out of the parking lot.

Next stop: Casa de Stratford.

**That turned out well, I'd say. No one forget to watch the new season in nine days!**

…**Not that I'm counting.**


End file.
